Story of Stuff

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A healthy lack of obligation

This blog is not an obligation!

Funny how that happens, and funny how I say that now, after months of not obliging it. I'm changing my tactic. I'm not sure what it was before, but whatever it was, it wasn't working and is therefore now out the window.

In my inaugural non-obligatory, and perhaps also my final post (who knows! There's no obligation! Whee!) I am just going to blab about the day. Because blabbing about my mundane day is what I do best, yet I doubt I will ever feel a sudden obligation to do continue doing it.

Today's theme is Health Issues

Say "hi", Health Issues.

"Hi, health issues!"

This morning started with my wandering eyes noticing both a fire engine and ambulance in front of my neighbor's house. This, sadly, is not an unusual occurrence. K has both lupus and fibromyalgia, recenly had spinal surgery, is an veritable encyclopedia of medications and information on how to deal with sundry agencies regarding children with disabilities, and cracks me the fuck up.

Hell, K, is the first person to introduce my son to a low vision aid. Not one of the many eye docs we saw, not the school, not the state. My neighbor.

So, even though an ambulance shows up at her house several times a year, my heart skips a beat each time. You get used to it, but you don't. You wonder how big a punch her body delivered to itself this time.

I don't know yet :( because we had health issue of the day #2 to deal with.

- - -

This is more positive, if "no change" can be called good news.

Son was diagnosed a few years ago at age 11 with cone dystrophy. It is, basically, a loss of central vision that one is born with.

Now, that simple definition should have clued me in right away, but I need details, and get bogged down in web research even though each time I do it in this case, the results are the same: there is very little out there. The little that is out there indicates that it starts around the first decade of life, and can maybe possibly progress to complete blindness, but it's hard to say because it's a rare disease and there's scant data on it.

So, for a person who wants to understand so there are no real surprises down the road, it's frustrating as all get out. I could go on about those frustrations, but that's not the point today.

Today's point was that son was taken over the river and through the woods to a Univ eye clinic 1-1/2 hours away (because apparently that was how far we had to travel from home to finally find a doc who didn't call son a liar) and after the exam and visual field and retina photographing thingy, the result is that his visual acuity has held steady at 20/400 (20/200 being legal blindness).

It's good because it's not getting worse, and what I got a whiff of from the doc was that the longer he goes without getting worse, the better the odds that it won't ever get worse. He did add that it probably won't get better either, but I was never expecting that to happen anyway. Son already knows that he will have to keep being good to his sister if he doesn't want her to abandon her emphatic offer to drive him all over the place when she's old enough to drive. ;)

And there was a real nice aha moment today, too. Doc is great, but he is the fastest damned talker I've ever met. It's almost comical, as he speed-talk-dictates into his recorder and without missing a beat shoots a quick question at son, pauses all of one second to allow for response, then continues on. So having an assistant in the room at the end of the hours-long appointment was a big plus, as she was able to translate for me that which made me go, "aha".

We always thought this was something that progressed with him. His behavior indicated it. He never sat close to the TV, or held a book close at first. Then everything is pulled in a little closer and closer until we finally realize that something's going on. I always thought he could see fine when he didn't have things so close. But doc said (translated by assistant) that he wasn't moving closer because his eyes were changing, but because his need for detail was. In other words, as a toddler the details didn't matter.

Geez, I think about it now and it makes loads of sense. Pictures for kids are simple. Shapes are basic. Print is large. He didn't need to get closer because nothing out there demanded that he be able to distinguish small details. It was the demands, not the eyes, that brought him closer and closer to things. Therefore, the conclusion at this time is that his vision has always been 20/400 or thereabouts. Which is even more reason to think that it won't get worse, it just is. Which to me, is good news.

- - -

Perhaps the best part of the day, though, was the thing that isn't so directly health-related, but something I consider a huge part of what makes one healthy.

The guy at the front desk just made my freaking week. When we were all standing at the desk to check in, from moment one he addressed my son directly, as if it was the most natural thing in the world to turn to the actual patient to ask him to verify his address, phone number, etcetera. I say that tongue-in-cheek because it should be natural, but it's so rare that when it happens, you slap your head and wonder why, yeah why, do people direct questions not to the child patient old enough to possess language skills, but to their parent(s)? And even though you know that what this person did, which was to treat a child as a person, is what the norm should be, you still feel like handing him a blue ribbon or something for doing it.

Oh, and then when I went up to get my parking validated, he pulled out a box of chocolates that a resident brought back from vacation, took off the lid and held it out to me in offering. So I took one, looked up at him, and he just continued to hold that box so I could take a couple for the kids.

Gawd, I just love the little details, and the people that make a point of paying attention to them and injecting them into your day. That's what I call good for your health!

SE!

Tagged, dagnabbit

Here I was all geared to go into hour 78 of the Great Green Screen Adventure, when Simply Wondered dropped this diversion on me!

A - Available or Single? Unsingle. That other word gives me the heebie jeebies, much like the word heebie jeebies does. If my head could process anything but the color green right now, I might be able to explain why.

B - Best Friend? The one that causes me to answer "unsingle" to the above question. This does not mean they are the best at everything!

C - Cake or Pie? Pie, hands down. Or rather, hands full of pie! Rhubarb pie in one, apple in the other.

D - Drink of Choice? Diet Pepsi for the caffeine addiction, Bloody Mary's for the zing. And what kind of bartender does not put a lime wedge on the rim? It's criminal.

E - Essential Item? A home.

F - Favorite Color? This one! It's similar to the first color I put on my walls, and was aptly named Canyon Redrock. I envy the ability of Paint Chip Naming Professionals to so accurately describe a color. In general though, I'm all about the warm, earthy tones. I practically faint at the sight of a Craftsman style home.

G - Gummi Bears or Worms? Bears. After all, I am 3/4 filthy German, SW ;)

H - Hometown? Only the blogs I comment on know for sure.

I - Indulgence? Raku pottery makes me weak, much like Craftsman colors.

J - January or February? For what, filing taxes? Getting over a New Year's Eve hangover? Celebrating President's Day?

K - Kids? (Doncha just love single words as questions?) As in what, do I have them? Do I like them? Have I heard of them? Yes, I have two, I like them most of the time, love them madly all of the time, and haven't heard from them since they went to bed tonight.

L - Life is incomplete without… Creativity.

M - Marriage Date? Is this like New Math? I'm afraid I missed the boat on this one.

N - Number of Siblings? One younger brother.

O - Oranges or Apples? Apples, Granny Smith.

P - Phobias/Fears? A bit of claustrophobia. A fear of being incapacitated, aware, but unable to communicate.

Q - Favourite Quote.

I know we've only known each other for four weeks and three days, but to me it seems like nine weeks and five days. The first day seemed like a week and the second day seemed like five days and the third day seemed like a week again and the fourth day seemed like eight days and the fifth day you went to see your mother and that seemed just like a day and then you came back and later on the sixth day, in the evening, when we saw each other, that started seeming like two days, so in the evening it seemed like two days spilling over into the next day and that started seeming like four days, so at the end of the sixth day on into the seventh day, it seemed like a total of five days. And the sixth day seemed like a week and a half.

R - Reasons to smile. Color, nature, compassion, and dark chocolate.

S - Season? Spring. No, Fall. No, wait. Spring. Yeah. No, Fall. Yeah, definitely Fall.

T - Tag Three. If you are reading this and haven't been tagged, consider yourself tagged. If you'd rather not be tagged, just pretend you didn't read this. It's really that simple!

U - Unknown Fact About Me. I appeared as an extra in an after-school special.

V – Vegetarian or Oppressor of Animals? Oppressor.

W - Worst Habit? Nail biting. Er, smoking. Um, hedging. Smoking while biting my nails. In the hedges.

X – X-rays or Ultrasounds? Let's see, cold table where you lie for half an hour and they never get it right the first time even though you were still as a corpse and have to re-take it, or cold gunk on your skin for a minute or two. I'll take the gunk. Just don't ask me about MRIs.

Y - Your Favorite Foods? Black olives. Carmelized onions. Home grown tomatoes. Raspberries. Caramel. Dark chocolate. Broccoli. Anything with butter on it.

Z - Zodiac? Gemini. Send presents!

Fantastic stuff

Just wanted to share a few posts out there that I really loved and hope others will, too.

the angry black woman loves Tim Wise. So do I. See why.

prochoiceladycat at the Lilith Fund Blog shares My Life is Non-Negotiable To Me, originally posted by Natasha at dFloss*

*thanks, Ginger!

Arrgh

So, I call the ex psych doc's office because I want a copy of my file. There's no particular reason, really, except that it documents a 5 years period of my life in a psych-med induced haze that partially fried my memory. I might want to refer to it, for example, every time some new revelation about pharmaceutical company lies are revealed or I experience some health issue and want to look back at that for possible causes.

Which may be the problem. Hahaha

I left a message and got a call back from office staff, saying nope. "Why?" I asked, and was met with silence, prompting me to ask if the caller was even still on the phone, let alone the planet. I asked again, and was told that office policy was that they only release to other doctors.

I'm not a huge conspiracy theorist, but I am a skeptic. My records, of my treatment, and I don't have access to them?

So I asked what am I supposed to do if, say 30 years in the future (when he is dead, I think privately) a doctor does need those records? "Oh, we destroy them after 7 years."

Sure ya do. And that serves the patient, right? Not you, not pharma. Right? Let the conspiracy begin!

And I look up law/statute stuff on this, and because I'm no lawyer, I can only vaguely comprehend the general stuff. (I say 'vaguely' because in law-speak, a perfectly normal sounding everyday word that you think you know the meaning of can have it's own special convoluted definition. Because law, like medicine, is here to serve the public. Hahaha)

Okay, so law sez they're not my property. And I should be able to request a copy, with exceptions. Exceptions? Lemme look further at some state law looking stuff...

However, copies of a patient's records shall not be furnished to such patient when the patient's treating physician or clinical psychologist, in the exercise of professional judgment, has made a part of the patient's records a written statement that in his opinion the furnishing to or review by the patient of such records would be reasonably likely to endanger the life or physical safety of the patient or another person, or that such health records make reference to a person, other than a health care provider, and the access requested would be reasonably likely to cause substantial harm to such referenced person.

Seeing as how the files are now in storage, says office person, it's not like anyone pulled them to find a note saying "Oh Noes! Don't ever let her read this shit as it would endanger humans!" Rather, it is assumed that simply being a consumer of mental services that I am by default a scary person. Like being on that crap for 5 years was a walk in the park and it would be seeing my records, and not the actual hell that was life-on-meds, that would send me over the edge.

Fuckers.

I'm just fuming, is all.

NBC identifies Cho's accomplice whilst looking in the mirror

We know one thing for sure: Cho Seung-Hui's goal was to terrorize: To terrorize the victims, their families, classmates, friends, colleagues, and anyone with a conscience. Just as the dormitory murders of Emily Hilscher and Ryan Clark merely served as his diversionary tool, the murders of 30 more at Norris Hall did not signal and end to his plans for terror. As every news outlet is quick to frequently remind us, this is a record-setting murder spree. In planning this, Cho knew that it would saturate the networks when the results of his actions became known. Thus, he took steps to control how his message was broadcast once he was dead. Rather than leave the news media to put their own version together based on leaks, bits of witness accounts, and speculation-as-newstainment, he literally mailed his terrorizing materials to NBC between murders.

Since I take "need to know" with a grain of salt just as I do most other things, I will say that the airing and posting these materials by NBC was not done in the interest of informing the public. I have read something akin to "at least it answers one question: what Cho was doing those two hours". Sharing that answer with the public can be as simple as reporting it as a fact, as in "the package also included disturbing images of Cho in threatening poses with a gun", and still answers the question.

Instead, they choose to allow Cho to directly terrorize what is now a huge audience through words and images meant only to be broadcast in the immediate wake of his murders, when the terror and grief are still painfully raw.

NBC says they took 4 hours to "agonize" over the decision over Cho's "confusing" message. The problem is that the message is clear and NBC not only heard it, but decided to comply with it's intent: to provide the medium for a dead Cho to further terrorize through his own words and images, including splashing the photo of Cho pointing the barrel of a gun directly at the camera all over the place.

Since NBC took the time to, dare I say, plan this, I find them culpable in Cho's plan to terrorize hundreds of millions of people.

I stand behind the families who have refused to speak to NBC in protest. I stand with our family friend, currently with a family member who in the hospital; one of the many victims of the bullets that came out of that gun.

But more to the point, fuck you NBC.

Blame HIM

Cho Seung-Hui

Him. No one else. Clear?

VA Tech

Gawd, This is just making me sick to my stomach.

Wherin I start to talk about one thing and end up somewhere else; what else is new

I was outside the city's convention center earlier this week taking a smoke break from the day-long seminar when a woman approached me. She was amicable and told me she had a small bag of items for sale as she pulled out the first, a pair of flip-flops. My daughter loves flip-flops, so I listened as she pulled more items from the bag, expecting a variety of footwear to choose from. As she presented each item, different from the last, she primarily described each one as new and never opened.

One pair of flip-flops. One bottle of lotion. One t-shirt. One comb. One wash cloth. One bar of soap. One bottle of shampoo.

You've probably figured it out already. She offered the bag for $6 to cover bus fare and food, I took the offer as the items were handy and worth that much so whythehellnot, and she continued on her way. But it bugged me. Why different items? Did she go through cupboards to get a few items to sell for quick cash? Why just one washcloth? No, I didn't put it together until the next morning.

As I handed the flip-flops to my daughter I immediately realized, "homeless shelter handouts". Duh. Now that I solved that slightly nagging question something else replaced it: the "what if's" and "coulda's". What if I realized this at the time, what could I have done different? Could I have offered some items back if she needed them? Could I have asked if she gets these things each time, and after a while rolls her eyes at being provided a year's supply of lotion each night while, for instance, never being provided bus fare to bounce around from poorly located service to poorly located service? I don't know, because my chance to ask has passed.

But maybe it doesn't matter. At the time I figured "There's something about the items I don't get, but the value is right and the items useful", which is pretty much any transaction. Do I need it? Is the price fair? That's about it - why does it have to be more than that just because it did not take place in a dollar store?

Which brings me to mom. Oh, mom, I never knew you, did I? I thought I did, but sadly, I have to admit after all these years, the person I really knew was dad and I just blindly assumed that it extended to you, also. I realize that you just plain never spoke up about things, and I assumed that was agreement with your spouse.

That's a sucky realization to be making at 41 - about my assumptions.

We visited my parents two weeks ago for a few days when they came to the east coast to vacation. With them in the car on the way to somewhere in their area, we pass by a man holding a sign that says, "Will work for food". Mom, in the back seat with the kids, points this out and then declares that the man is lying, that "they" are all liars, lazy, and just want money to buy booze. It was like Bad Stereotype Virus just invaded her brain and took over. But it wasn't. The difference is that now she has found her voice (stereotyped as it is).

What did I do? I cringed. I shook my head no in an effort to keep the words from coming out. The only other time I got a whiff of her new found voice was a few months ago in a phone conversation. This time she brought up the issue of the day, as fed to her by a newspaper opinion editor: immigration. And as she got into it and I rebutted the points she, or rather the opinion writer (sorry, but damn, it's like that), I could not get past her continual use of the word "illegals". She used it constantly. "Illegals, illegals, illegals." It was driving me mad. And I had never been down this road with her exploring opinions like this. No where in the word "illegal" is the word "person", I told her. "Illegal" is bad. "Illegal" is murder, rape, robbery. Illegal is not skin color, and accent, and person. I went on and on, not letting it go. I just, well, couldn't believe that was coming out of her mouth and her defense of the term. Gawd.

So since she was revealing this new vocal side of her, I let into her. Okay, I held back some because I was so very mad at her using the term over and over again; because this sort of discussion was new ground for us, because I certainly didn't want to scare her right back to voicing the first stereotyped opinion she opens the page to that makes her feel "better". But I still let into her quite a bit, even recalling how after being raped, all I heard about it from others at school was that I was a slut and a whore. Which was nothing compared to the words my parents used when they found out I was pregnant a few months later. i.e. Words hurt, mom. Anyway, I know using this term, having this view makes her feel better. I know how "inconvenient" she finds having to push one extra button at the ATM to select the language, and that it's convenient to blame "illegals" for having such a humongous obstacle put in front of her! And her thinking that, and me knowing that, really sucks.

So, back to situation #2: mom in the car. This is why I did not say anything. Not on a visit, not with the kids, not when I'm still trying to understand this person, and certainly not while my ears were burning hot (bad temper sign for me). I did talk with the kids later, alone, to ask them what they thought of what she said in the car and then discuss it with them. Another day and time, perhaps, I will ask mom if she wonders what everyone else does with their money, the ones not on the side of the road. If she has vetted the gas station clerk to make sure they are not buying beer when their rent is due. You know, shit like that.

And back to situation #1: the flip-flops. I don't know what the woman's story was. I didn't think to ask at the time. But I know what my mom would have said. And I just don't get that. She raised me. How could it be so different? How could I not know all this time? But mostly I don't get it because I do the opposite. Instead of "she's a liar, she just wants money for booze", I think "it could be any number of things. It could be anything. I don't know, so if I don't at least ask, I won't assume".

And I think about mom. How I never saw mom talk to different people and ask their stories. Surely she never asked someone on the side of the road if they indeed would mow the lawn or fix a fence for food. And I realize, for the first time in 41 years, that my mom is tied to the convenience of her privilege, and would rather whole segments of society be further disadvantaged than say, push an extra button. The horror!

Maybe it's the diagnosis. 2 years ago with a disease that could kill her within 10 years. Maybe there's a lot of transition there, rethinking things, looking for that voice she never used, which at first is easily swayed by the first opinion that comes along that makes you feel good. I got past that a few decades ago, but I guess mom never got started.

And isn't it ironic, now that she is on disability. (Certainly she would not call those on disability lazy, because that would not make her feel good, or maybe it's just everyone else on it. Who isn't white. With an employed spouse.) Now that she has that handicap placard. (How inconvenient! I have to walk further!)

Okay, stopping the snark. Suddenly, I don't know my mom in a way. Maybe never did. Maybe she never did.

Listening to:

Philip Dawdy speaks on the Zyprexa documents, psychopharmacology and the media on Madness Radio. Thank you, Philip for all you do.

Toe-tappin'

If I had known how easy a matrixectomy was, I'd have gone to the podiatrist years ago.

Great Uncle

Certain people just touch you deeply and don't let go without putting forth any effort. That's my great uncle. His heart is huge. I wish everyone could know him. I wish I could put it into better words.

But it's hard, because he died this morning and I can't stop crying, dammit.

I can swear to you that he didn't have a mean bone in his body. He had mental retardation, which is the term I was told when I was very young and thought that the reason he was hard to understand had something to do with the prosthesis hook on one arm. So I've always been comfortable with that term, probably because the first time I heard it and for quite some time thereafter, I heard it used properly. I gotta tell ya though, nothing bothers me more on this earth than some asshole slinging around the word "retard" to put down someone else as if they are the better person. They're not. Not ever. Don't fucking do it.

He lived in the same town he was born in for decades. Just about everyone knew him, and if anyone were to ever think of short-changing him at the store, or doing any thing bad toward him, they'd have a whole town to answer to.

His heart was huge. He once bought a boat when I was young just so he could take us out on the lake when we visited. The excuse was that it was for fishing, but this was no fishing boat.

The kids - the kids loved him. They thankfully were able to meet him a few times and they just naturally gravitated to him, and if that's not beauty ---

And those Christmas cards. Damn. I must have only seen him a few dozen times in my life on family visits, but I got those cards every year of my life from him. And every year, wherever I lived, whether I was five or thirty-five, he included a five dollar bill. Even when I was young, I never looked at that five dollars as inadequate. Somehow, it was huge in a whole other sense.

And he didn't just sign his name to the card. He wrote a note; a few sentences. You could tell, with the scraggly, labored writing that it must have taken him an awfully long time to write all that, but he did. Every single time, as long as he still had some eyesight left, he did it himself. I dunno. Just something about that writing, that five dollars, that consistency, that thoughtfulness, was always just the best gift I ever got every single year.

And now I won't get that any more. Which sounds selfish, but damn, it was certainly a wonderful annual reminder of what can be right in this often crappy world.

So I know this isn't eloquent or anything, but I just needed to say something because he died, and it sucks, and I'm going to miss him an awful lot.

Big Ovaries!

Gawd, I love the Uppity Blues Women!

Thank you, Molly

You'll be missed.

Showdown!

Guess who I'm rooting for?

erg

I have spreadsheet fatigue.

Dec 6 is Free EC Day

Check out your local Planned Parenthood affiliate for details.

Spouse fine

Buck deceased.